The Other Holmes
by Pickwick12
Summary: Sarah couldn't tell John she was actually Sherlock's sister. He would run the other way. Right? AU  Thanks to the kind fans of "The Science of Friendship." This is standalone. Hope you like it, too.
1. The Lie

Dear Diary,

Oh dear, we still haven't told John yet.

I sometimes feel really guilty when I think about it, and then an urge to laugh hysterically tends to take over.

We didn't plan it. I was sitting in my office hoping for a decent applicant to respond to my ad in the newspaper, when in walked a short, sensible sort of a man with a face that looked a little like a basset hound's. I love basset hounds.

He was cute, I liked him, and he seemed qualified. I hired him on the spot.

The problem is, John's not really one to drop random details into conversation. I simply thought he was a nice guy with a military history.

Well, I guess it's my fault, too. I certainly wasn't going to call either one of my brothers for an opinion. No, Sir, I decided a long time ago that they weren't going to hear anything until an official engagement. Scratch that, they're not going to be in on it until the wedding invitations. Anyway, if I'd only known, I'd have made an exception.

I had a mad crush on John right away, though he had some odd habits like falling asleep during his shift or dashing out to sudden appointments. He was a good doctor, though, and those aren't that easy to find.

The trouble started for real when he asked me to the circus. He'd told me he had a flatmate, but he didn't talk about much about his home life, so I was excited when he asked me out for a real date that I hoped might include a little more insight into his life outside the hospital.

I remember him saying, "My flatmate's a little different, Sarah," as we were walking toward the circus. I had no idea. None at all. Unpardonably unobservant in retrospect. "He said he'd be out for the evening, so you probably won't meet him. Home's a frightful mess, though. He's not very tidy."

I smiled. "What was his name?" Only, John didn't answer because someone bumped into us, and we reached the box office right after that.

I heard two phrases: "three tickets" and "Holmes."

I stood slightly behind John, feeling like someone was playing a very strange practical joke on me. Within seconds, the long, spare frame of a man brushed against me, and I looked up to meet the disconcerting eyes of my brother Sherlock.


	2. The Circus

Dear Diary,

Sherlock didn't betray his surprise at seeing me, and I thought perhaps he'd already somehow deduced that I was John's new girlfriend – or maybe John had mentioned my name, but I doubted it. Like I said, John's not much for superfluous details.

Anyway, Sherlock narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly, but I understood the message: Keep it mum for now.

I didn't obey him because I necessarily thought he was right; I obeyed to give him the benefit of the doubt. He's no idiot, after all.

That's when things went haywire.

The circus turned out to be a trap of sorts, and Sherlock nearly got himself killed, as usual. John was shocked at my courage under fire. Sherlock took it as a matter of course, though I was rewarded with a wink when John wasn't looking.

Home we went, and I expected a quiet evening in which I could reveal everything to John in a leisurely manner and hopefully not make myself and Sherlock look like lying liars who lie. Well, I won't vouch for Sherlock; not much I can do for his character, but I hoped to keep my own intact.

Unfortunately, John and I soon found ourselves tied up by Chinese thugs with Sherlock nowhere in sight. It's no lie when I say that I was ready to strangle my brother, especially when I found out that it was all a misunderstanding and that they had somehow mistaken his identity. I wanted to scream out that they had the wrong man, but I was gagged, and even if I had tried to yell out the truth, I doubt they'd have accepted it as plausible.

My brother finally showed at the last moment, and I'll admit that I was pretty much reduced to a quivering mass of nerves by then. Sherlock kindly untied me, and it's a good thing John wasn't watching because the way he touched me was far more familiar than it normally would have been if we were just acquaintances.

"Next date won't be like this." I'm telling you, John Watson is the cutest thing since baby chicks.

I was debriefed by the police along with Sherlock and John. I kind of wished it would have occurred to someone that my brother and I look alike, even though we don't. I wanted an excuse to 'fess up to John, especially after what he'd just been through. Sherlock's eyes wouldn't let me, though.

As I was leaving the flat, I got a text message: "Meet me here Monday noon. SH"


	3. The Siblings

Dear Diary,

Sherlock was doing some kind of chemical experiment when Mrs. Hudson let me into the flat.

"Sherly, I brought Chinese," I yelled from the kitchen.

He came into the room with dirty fingers and a scowl on his face. "Don't call me Sherly, Sarah Sawyer."

"Ooh, you're so scary. I might need therapy after that," I said sarcastically.

Sherlock smirked. "How's my least-favorite sister?"

I turned to face him and put my hands on his shoulders.

"Cut to the chase. Why don't you want John to know we're related?"

"It's not for me," he answered, surprising me a little. "If he knows we're related, he'll stop seeing you."

"Excuse me?"

"He's met me and Mycroft. Do you really think he's going to consider another member of our family a good romantic gamble?"

I bristled. "He's not that shallow! He wouldn't push me away just because the two of you are crazy."

Sherlock stared down at me. "Not my problem if you want to tell him. I'm just warning you."

I stared back at him, and I had to admit that he was probably right. Even I wouldn't want to date myself after meeting Sherlock and Mycroft. They scared away plenty of boyfriends during my school years, and it's not like they got less weird as they grew up. No way to prove I'm the normal one, not at first. Doesn't seem possible for normal to even exist in the Holmes family. I finally shrugged in defeat, and Sherlock nodded.

"Very wise," said my younger brother sententiously. I wanted to smack him, so I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, knowing he would find it equally annoying if not more so.

"Thanks for the warning, Little Brother."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't bother my flatmate."

"Don't bother my boyfriend," I retorted.

Sherlock walked me to the door, and I turned on impulse and wrapped my arms around his neck. "I love you," I whispered, knowing and hoping it would irritate him. He returned the hug but looked at me with that owlish expression he gets when he's not quite sure how to respond – not an unpleasant look, just quizzical. He patted my shoulder, and I walked out to return to work.

Work. That place where John would be waiting to smile at me as I came in. That smile.


	4. The Reason

Dear Diary,

I rarely date. Most men remind me too much of my father, the memory in my brain of a cold, disapproving face that took and never gave. I used to hate him so much that I changed my name – to Sawyer, my mother's maiden name – instead of Holmes, the name I had at birth. I hated the way Mycroft would try to please him, showing him more and more evidence of his competence and uprightness, only to receive cold looks and rejection in return. I hated even more the way Sherlock, a kid back then, would look so bewildered and hurt whenever his childish behaviors were the recipient of undeserved harsh reprimands. I could see him go further and further inside, retreating behind his eyes until he was an engine running on autopilot and the real Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

I used to envy my brothers. They got to escape to boarding school, but I never did. I was kept at home to stop my mother from being too lonely. I learned to ignore the coldness of my father and concentrate on my own success. His death was like a rite of passage. I was fifteen, and I determined that I would forget him, take my mother's name, and never feel that kind of rejection again. When my mother died three years later, I tried to feel sad, but I found it difficult to grieve the nervy, weak-willed woman who had failed to protect her sons and caved under the pressure of a cruel husband. For my own sake, I didn't care. I had long ago realized that I could take care of myself. I was angry at her for the sake of my brothers.

Now, I've stopped hating. I know that my father was a broken man, somehow, and that my mother never knew how to find her strength. I also know that my brothers are responsible for the men they have become, and I love them. I love Mycroft, with his three-piece suits and his obsessive need for control, and I love Sherlock, with his craving for drama and the kind heart he tries hard to bury. They are my family. That doesn't mean I always like them, though.

John's different. He's never set off the warning sensors in my brain, the signals that tell me a man is going to treat me like my father did, not even once. He doesn't ask for things he's not willing to give back, and he treats me like an equal. He's also something my brothers can never manage to be – _normal_. I love the comforting regularity of being with him, grabbing takeaway, watching telly, leaning my head on his shoulder and knowing that he's not harboring any secret observations about what I did with my day based on the dirt flecks on my shoes. He's just John, solid, warm, and safe. I could get used to this kind of security, but I'm a little scared to. Things this nice don't usually last.


	5. The Dinner

Dear Diary,

It's been two weeks since Sherlock convinced me to keep our family ties a secret from John. Things have been moving along well, and I've had no reason to interact with John and Sherlock together, so no acting skills necessary. I've been feeling pretty rosy about life, but then I opened my inbox this morning: Email from Mycroft.

The thing about Mycroft is, he always does things in an irritatingly formal way. His email sounded like a form letter from the tax revenue, when all it really contained was an invitation to have dinner at his flat. I replied that I'd be there. His chef's skills are far too amazing to pass up. I both dreaded and looked forward to seeing my older brother. Interactions with him are usually amusing, but they're also disconcerting.

Mycroft's flat is tucked away in a forgotten corner of London that looks like nowhere at all. Inside, though, it's about as posh as Buckingham Palace. Whenever I go there, I feel like I'm being ushered in to see a king. That's how he likes it, of course, always slightly removed from the common element.

As soon as I arrived, Mycroft's housekeeper took my coat and showed me in. She's a petite, middle-aged woman who must be on some kind of Mycroft-induced gag order, because she never responds to any attempts at small talk. I sat down on the white leather couch in my brother's company room and immediately kicked off my shoes and curled my legs under me. It was a small act of protest against Mycroft's tidal wave of control.

"Ah, you've arrived." Mycroft smiled his creepy smile and sat down opposite me in a straight-backed chair. "Very wise of you to take Sherlock's advice about Doctor Watson. Oddly enough, I'd have said the same." I nodded, resigned to the fact that he'd already know all this.

Mycroft looked good, thinner than last time I saw him. I didn't mention it. His weight is a sore subject, and I'm not cruel. "What do you think of John Watson?" I asked softly after a moment. I trust Mycroft's appraisal of people, and he's usually honest with me underneath the official persona.

"He's an interesting man, a trustworthy man, so addicted to adrenaline he can't leave Sherlock's side."

I should've said I trust Mycroft's opinion when Sherlock doesn't come into it. "Don't you think he might actually _like _Sherlock?" I asked, unable to resist the chance to argue.

"Do you really think that's likely?" This question was meant as an insult to my intelligence, but I didn't care.

"Perhaps not likely, but certainly possible. Some people do like Sherlock, you know."

The moment I said that, Mycroft's face made me realize I had hit a mark I wasn't aiming for. All our lives, my relationship with Sherlock has been playful, trusting, even loving. In his own weird way, he's always shown me that he cares for me. My relationship with my older brother, on the other hand, has been distant, cold, and strained. Even though most of the strain is Mycroft's own doing, he's always resented what he seems to think is evidence that I care more for Sherlock than I do for him. It's not true, of course. I love him just as much; I've just never known quite how to show it. Sherlock and I speak a similar language; Mycroft is unintelligible. Funny how his perceptions fail when it comes to his own family.

We tried to make small talk over dinner, a fantastic Italian meal prepared by Mycroft's personal chef using ingredients I probably couldn't afford to buy even once a year. I felt like I was a uni student again, home on a school break, trying to connect with the closest thing to a father I had left. Mycroft isn't anything like our father was, but the alienation felt a little familiar. I really hoped he wasn't planning to ask me to do this often.

After dinner, he called me a taxi and paid for it. I wanted very much to let him know that I respected his opinion, that I was glad he trusted John Watson, but I couldn't do it. His genial, closed face made me bite back my words and put on a mask to match his.

At least he doesn't want to sabotage my relationship, not that I can tell, anyway. Always safer to be wary with Mycroft.


	6. The Crazy

Dear Diary,

Two days after I saw Mycroft, John and Sherlock's flat exploded. John was at my flat; he'd spent the night there. He just needed a place to sleep, a place to get away from my crazy brother. I could understand that without any trouble at all.

I almost blurted out the truth when I saw the news footage, but John was out the door before I could. My hands shook as I texted Sherlock's phone.

_Are you ok?_

_Fine. Why do you ask? _

_S.H._

Relief flooded me.

John called a few minutes later to let me know that everything was ok, that his crazy flatmate was still alive. That and the incidental detail that Mycroft Holmes was over for a visit. Mycroft? At Sherlock's? Oh well, as long as everyone was in one piece, I really didn't care to put my nose in.

Then, yesterday, Sherlock and John disappeared. I don't know where they are. I'm writing this to keep from going insane while I wait for a call from that Scotland Yard inspector with the name that sounds like it's not English. I even tried to contact Molly, the girl who runs the St. Bart's morgue. I thought she had a thing for Sherlock, but I guess she's dating somebody else, and she can't find him either. We all have our problems, right? Mine's not that big. I'm just missing the one man who doesn't make me feel like I'm in jail when I'm with him and the brother who made my childhood bearable.

I'm trying not to hate Mycroft because I can't get in touch with him. The one man who might be able to help is too busy at his club or his office or somewhere to be able to care what happens to his brother. He's certainly not missing. Mycroft would never do anything as dangerous as losing himself.


	7. The Fear

Dear Diary,

Reichenbach Pool. I've never even heard of it. Inspector Lestrade says it's the place they went before they weren't anywhere. It has something to do with a case. Of course it does. Sherlock would get himself and his friend lost at a swimming pool that figures in a 20-year-old case. I hate Sherlock.

No, I don't. I love him so much that I don't think I can make it if he's gone. It doesn't matter if I don't see him or talk to him for ages. He's my little brother.

I can't even think about what losing John would mean.


	8. The Truth

Dear Diary,

Mycroft. Mycroft saved their lives. It would almost be funny if it was someone else's life. All the time I thought I couldn't reach him, thought he wasn't taking my calls, he was working it all out, doing the legwork he can't stand to save the brother who makes him crazy. Mycroft is the one who took out the snipers Moriarty thought were on his side and replaced them with his own men. He's the one who waited until the last moment so that he could capture Moriarty and take him to prison without anyone dying. He's the reason Sherlock didn't blow himself, John, and Moriarty to kingdom come.

He's also the one who called to tell me it was all ok.

"Sarah?" His voice was calm, sedate, as usual.

I started screaming into the phone as soon as I heard it, cursing, I'm sorry to say. Once I had some kind of control over myself, I started on him about everything that frustrated me. I won't repeat everything I said, even to my journal, but I called him some pretty ugly names—useless overgrown stuffed shirt was probably the mildest one.

I even—I even told him how much more I like Sherlock than I like him. It wasn't true, but it felt like it right then.

He stayed on the other end of the line and didn't say anything until I was so out of breath I had to pause. I was kind of done anyway.

"Sarah, they're fine. I found them, and they're fine."

His voice was quiet, but I could tell I had hurt him. I'm a Holmes, after all, even if I wear the name "Sawyer" to cover it up. I'm not stupid. I could also read what his words really meant—he had found them; that meant he had saved them.

I didn't know what to say. I could hear a recording of every nasty thing I had just said playing in my brain, just like I always can after I've lost my temper, and none of it was justified.

"Mycroft—I—"

"Leave it," he said, as he hung up the phone.

Inspector Lestrade called a few minutes later, and I went down to the Yard and got the best kiss of my life from John Watson. Sherlock smiled at me, and I could tell he wanted to give me a hug, but he didn't because John was there.

After a second, I saw John's eyes travel from me to Sherlock and back again. "Come on, Sarah," he said with a laugh. "Don't you think it's time to stop acting?"

My face went pale. He knew. How did he know? The fact that I had thought he was probably dead a few hours earlier somehow didn't lessen the horror of this revelation. I had never seen John Watson truly angry, and I was afraid I would now.

Sherlock intervened then, coming forward and giving me the awkward, affectionate hug he had denied me. "How long have you known?" he asked John indignantly, with his arms wrapped around me. He hates having his deceptions found out, always has.

John looked in danger of bursting, whether from anger or laughter I was unable to tell. "Since the first day I ever came to the clinic. I saw a family picture fall out of Sarah's wallet when I cam for my interview. It was old but unmistakable." Then the dam broke, and he doubled over with laughter.

I thought John might never stop laughing. He was so extremely pleased with himself. I imagine Sherlock and I wore similar looks of open-mouthed amazement. Well, mine is slightly open-mouthed and Sherlock's is more of a sneer accompanied by a nose wrinkle.

"Sherlock's – wheeze – sister – snort." John seemed in danger of becoming unhinged.

"Are-are you angry, John?" I asked tentatively.

John finally controlled his laughter enough to respond. "Of course not. Do you know how funny it was to watch the two of you trying to keep it a secret?"

Sherlock scowled. "Well, John, now that you've had a laugh at our expense, I have something to say."

"Yes, Sherlock?" John had that look people get when they're trying to look serious without looking serious at all.

"You have my permission to date my sister."

John and I both stared at Sherlock for a second, and then John doubled over with laughter again. I, however, punched my brother in the arm.

"What do you mean permission, Sherly?"

No one would believe this except my diary, but Sherlock grabbed me then, and we wrestled like we had when we were kids. He won, of course, and I ended up in a hold that felt more like a hug than anything.

John wiped tears from his eyes and faced us.

"I have your permission to date Sarah, eh? How about marry her?"

Sherlock let me go, and I kissed my 31st employee while my little brother watched with a sardonic smile.


	9. The Forgiveness

Dear Diary,

Engaged! Me! Engaged for the first time, to the man who looks like the most adorable basset hound in the world. I'm so happy I could die.

But there's something I had to do, and I knew it.

That's why, the afternoon after I got engaged, I put myself into a taxi and rode to Mycroft's flat, that place I never go unless I have to. I knew he would be home because I called his secretary to make sure. She would certainly tell him I had called, but I didn't care.

This time, Mycroft let me in instead of his housekeeper.

As soon as I saw him, I wanted to cry. I'm not much of a crier, you know, but with all the scary and sad and happy and relieving things that had been happening over the previous few days, I realized I actually had tears in me that wanted to come out.

Mycroft looked down at me in his appraising way and did something Sherlock never would have done.

See, Sherlock would have seen that I was going to cry and either left or started talking—telling me why I shouldn't be upset, all the reasons to keep calm and carry on, or tried to distract me with something like theoretical physics. (Some day I'll have to write up the story of the day my first boyfriend broke up with me and Sherlock tried to teach me about organic chemistry.)

Mycroft didn't do any of that. Instead, he pulled me close and let me cry in his arms. In that moment, he was my big brother again—taking the blame when Sherlock and I made our father angry, holding me the day my mother died, finding me and carrying me home when I got drunk and lost as a teenager—the big brother who was doing it again, forgiving me so easily for thinking the most unforgivable things about him.

After a long time of him holding me and me sobbing like a wreck, he took out his handkerchief and wiped my eyes. "Congratulations, Sarah. I understand you're going to be Mrs. Watson." I could tell he was pleased, and I was glad.

I told him I loved him then. I felt so awkward saying it I thought I might spontaneously combust, but I didn't. Mycroft showed me out of his flat in a kind of daze, both of us grinning from ear to ear, and I felt really good on my ride back to the clinic.

Back to the clinic where a smile and a jumper and the most wonderful man in the world would be waiting.


End file.
